


A Memory of Light, an Image of Home

by Findecutie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findecutie/pseuds/Findecutie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turgon wakes in the Halls of Mandos after the fall of Gondolin. Fëanor is watching his arrival, and they have a pointed conversation about Valar, choices, and Noldor. Fencing words with Fëanor is never an easy task, and despite Turgon's best efforts his uncle's views and his pointed comparison of them begin to sound not only plausible but entirely correct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Memory of Light, an Image of Home

Turgon straightened, feeling eyes on him, and spun around. His own eyes narrowed as he caught sight of his uncle standing in the distance. His fists clenched involuntarily, and he moved towards Fëanor. “Fëanáro.”

 

“Turukáno.”

 

“What, have you come to haunt me?” Turgon half spat.

 

“Careful, boy. All this, and just after you’ve proven your kinship,” Fëanor wrinkled his nose faintly in distaste, “with me as far as the Valar are concerned?”

 

“What?!”

 

“You finally built something, boy. Not on your own, but still it was something you claimed as yours. And you looked on it and saw that it was fair. And you told Ulmo and his warnings to make like a bird on the morning of a feast day and get stuffed.” To Turgon’s mind his uncle sounded far too pleased with himself. Worse yet, he could not _entirely_ disagree.

 

“It was different!” He protested. “After the Nírnaeth Arnoediad my people wanted the safety and security-“

 

“ _My_ people, at Foremenos, after being attacked by Morgoth and Ungoliant- with no Valar to ‘defend’ them- and after watching _our_ king struck down wanted the last light on Arda,” Fëanor broke in over him, “which came from _my_ work and belonged to _my_ house.”

 

“We did not intend harm,” Turgon stated firmly, as though this distinction was the most important.

 

“And you think we did to any but Morgoth and those who followed him?” Fëanor half smiled, though it came out closer to a grimace. “You turned away injured refugees fleeing Morgoth and kept your gate closed to them.” He shrugged a shoulder elegantly. “When Olwë refused us ships or the use of ships or instructions to build our own, we attempted to take enough to get to Beleriand safely- we intended no harm to the Teleri and originally planned to ferry our people across and leave the ships. The Teleri could retrieve them if or when they wished- I hardly think Osse would have let their boats come to harm if left slightly offshore near Beleriand. You forget that I and mine were already banished and had no other way to go but for the Helcaraxë- which we originally marched towards and which _certainly_ would have gotten my own people killed.”

 

Turgon’s eyes darkened at the reminder, and a chill ran through his bones at the thought of the wind and the ice and the echoing sound of cracking and shifting shelves. He shook his head, unable to believe the comparison Fëanor was making- between his fell obsession with vengeance and the Silmarilli and Turgon’s love of his hidden city in the Vale of Tumladen, beloved Gondolin which looked even as Tírion of old to the eyes of the Calaquendi who saw it… as the Silmarilli shone in the blackness after the darkening of Valinor with the light of the Two Trees. Turgon flinched, and sighed.

 

“There, you see?” his uncle asked. “We are not so different after all. You would stand against a Vala to keep your own, ignoring the counsel of another of the Valar. You would hold your creation and work to protect it and keep it alone even as all other kingdoms of the Eldar in Beleriand were thrown down. And so you died, and your people as well, and your white halls and golden streets were covered in darkness and fire.” He looked at his half-nephew with a mixture of pity and pride. “You are a prince of the Noldor. If you lived long enough- and you did- there was no other way for your story to end.”


End file.
